Thoughts of a Troubled Mind
by luvin-benadam
Summary: She can see the crimson red of his bloody body,unmoving on the bed where she too was laying only hours earlier.It’s the colour that is mesmerizing her though.It’s familiar, something she recognises and something she finds comfort in.And that scares her.


**Another one by me. There's a shocker. Lol. Anyways … **

**Disclaimer: Not mine. Don't own 'em. Just get confused sometimes**

**Warning: contains spoilers for the season finale. Don't say I didn't warn you!**

She looks around the room, eyes darting back and forth across the scene she doesn't wish to comprehend. She can see the people around her, watch them put her life under a microscope and survey her most intimate details, scrutinizing her every move and analyzing every aspect of her life, but she refuses to let it sink in; refuses to allow her mind to accept what's going on around her, whether she likes it or not.

The people are there, walking around his apartment as though it's just any old crime scene, clad in their CSU windbreakers and carrying their same old kits. It bothers her and she doesn't understand why.

From across the room she can see him, talking to another police officer, his face scrunched up into an expression she knows all to well; it's a look of distain, a look of confusion, and unless she is much mistaken, there is a trace of hurt mixed in as well. She knows it so well. It's so familiar. It's the look he get whenever she shuts him out or turns him down, it's the look he gets when she does something he doesn't approve of.

His attention is turned now to the notepad in his hands, scribbling furiously as the other officer relays him his own notes. They compare the two side by side as though they had been doing it for years and she watches as he gives the other man a nod of thanks and moves on to the next person.

From her spot on her chair in the kitchen, she can see _him _too. Him. The other man that is causing all this commotion in his own apartment. Although she knows she can't rightfully blame him. It's not his fault. He's dead.

She can see the crimson red of his bloody body, unmoving on the bed where she too was laying only hours earlier. It's the colour that is mesmerizing her though. It's familiar, something she recognises and something she finds comfort in. And that scares her.

She can see the man approaching, not the man lying dead on his bed of course, but the man she had been earlier watching, the man who's gait was familiar along with everything else about him. He walks silently up to her and sits down in the chair beside her. Nothing is said. Nothing needs to be said. For some strange reason his presence seems to be enough. He waits in silence and she takes notice of his hand which is resting on his knee, twitching as though he wants to reach out and take hers in his but thinks better of it. And for that she's grateful. The last thing she wants right now is another human touch. The thought of it revolts her and she can't explain why.

"I need you to tell me everything that happened Jordan," Woody says, body turned towards hers.

But she maintains her gaze fixedly forwards, unresponsive to his words. She doesn't remember anything. She's told them that over and over again. The night is nothing more than a whirl of black. The last thing she remembers is dancing at the party the night before, then waking up next to JD's blood caked body. She's told them this before. But apparently it's not enough. Apparently she's supposed to have the answers that they need. But it's not that simple and they should know that.

"Jordan?" he asks again. He can see she's upset; see the cold, distant look in her eyes that she gets whenever she shuts down. But he needs her to talk to him, needs her to relive the painful events that led to her ex-boyfriend dead in his bed with her prints on the murder weapon. He has to. It's his job. Or so he tells himself. He won't deny the curiosity that's burning inside of him at this very moment.

"Jor?" He hopes the use of her nickname will snap her out of her reverie. No such luck. Woody's mind is burning with questions, some more personal than police; like what made her go back to JD. After the Lucy Carver Inn, he had begged her to tell him about their little rendezvous under the sheets. And she had. And he had left, to DC if he wasn't mistaken.

Why had she gone back to him? Woody can't help but think that it's possibly because of him and Lu.

"Jordan!" He says it more forcefully this time, causing her head to turn in silence to him, eyes still distant and far-off, somewhat defeated. She's there, but not really.

"Jordan," his voice softens and this time he doesn't resist the urge to reach out and touch her. His hand creeps slowly towards her, finding her knee and cupping it. He can fell the warmth of her skin radiating onto his and fights the urge to smile.

She turns her head away from him, looking back to the people cluttering the small apartment. It's suffocating her. She stands abruptly, causing Woody's hand to fall from her lap. On her heel, she turns and leaves. She needs to get out, needs to breath air that isn't contaminated with fingerprint powder and the coppery smell of blood.

She can feel his presence behind her, tailing her but with space. She's thankful, although she would rather just be alone. The way to the roof is unfamiliar, but she figures it can't be too hard. Only way to go is up. She's feeling impatient, to lazy to wait for the elevator. She stairs are much quicker.

She finds them with ease and walks up them two at a time, eager to reach the fresh, uncontaminated air. Right now there's nothing more appealing. Reaching the top, she thrusts open the door and gulps the air, tilting her head to the morning sky which is dropping buckets of water down on her head. She's doesn't care that her hair is still up from the night before. She's wearing a jumpsuit courtesy of Boston PD Crime Unit. Apparently her clothes are evidence.

She's aware that he's standing behind her, still sheltered from the rain by the frame of the door, watching in awe as she simply stands, allowing the rain to soak through her.

It's refreshing; the rain. To Jordan, it feels like it's washing away all of the previous night's events, somehow making her feel anew. She hears him cough behind her, closer than he had been in awhile. She can feel him standing behind her, body heat radiating onto her. She's fighting the urge to turn around and kiss him.

"Jordan." His voice is soft and she thinks that she'll never get tired of him saying her name. "Come back inside. It's wet."

She turns and faces him, aware that they're standing barely inches apart. His hair is plastered to his head, raindrops sliding down his nose and dripping off, clinging his dress shirt to his toned body. She wants to say something but she can't seem to. Her mouth seems to have been glued shut.

"I didn't do it Woody," she says finally, her voice barely audible. She can hear them talking, she's no fool; hear them whispering her name under their breaths, followed by the unmistakable forming of the words, 'She's guilty.' She knows Lu thinks she did it, along with over half of the Boston PD. But what they think doesn't matter to her. The one person who does seems to be unreadable. She hopes he believes in her innocence, because if he doesn't, she might as well just throw in the towel and tell them she's guilty. Because without his faith in her, she wonders if life is worth living.

She's watching his mouth twitter, words percolating on his tongue. But apparently he's biting them back because he doesn't say them.

"Come on," he says again. "You're going to catch your death out here." He gently takes her arm and leads her back to the stairwell, showing her in before himself and shutting the door behind them.

She's not stupid; she saw the brush-off, the quick change in subject. He's thinks she's guilty, she can tell. She turns away from him and walks down the stairs, making a point of stomping her feet slightly more than she normally would.

He can tell she's pissed and frankly, he can't blame her. She had just point blank asked him if he thought she was guilty and he had swept it to the side. He can see why she thinks that he thinks she's guilty. She picking up her pace now, flying down the four flights to the floor from which they came. He quickens his pace to catch up with her.

"Jordan wait!" he yells from about three flights above her.

She stops and looks back at him, eyes burning with an emotion he can't quite decipher. But at least she stopped to wait for her. He runs to catch up with her, stopping on the landing beside and reaching out his hand, placing it lightly on her shoulder and waiting for her to brush it off.

But she doesn't and he's shocked. She simply closes her eyes, the touch familiar and caring. She can tell that he wants to say something but he's holding back. And so is she. She steps a little closer and he's even more floored. It's so unlike her to initiate contact. And he's not one to break it. She opens her eyes and looks at him, silently begging for him to take away her pain. He can't think of anything to do besides hugging her so he closes the final space between them and wraps his arms around her slender body, pulling her close to his chest.

He can feel her body raking with sobs, feel her tears stream down her cheeks as the soak through his already soaked shirt, hear her sniffles as she attempts to control them. But her attempt is futile; they both know it.

"It's alright Jordan," he coos, burying his head in her soft curls. He's at a loss for how to comfort her. It's been so long since he's had the chance. "It's alright. Everything's going to be ok. I promise," he whispers in her ear, arm draped tightly across her back, holding her tight. "We're going to get through this."

She sniffles again and pulls slowly away, their faces still only inches apart. They're staring into each other's eyes, looking for the emotion that they both know is in there somewhere. It's the emotion that brought them together, only to tear them apart over and over again. It's the strongest emotion anyone can ever feel. It's the emotion of love.

Eyes still locked, she makes the first move, slowly closing the small gap between their faces and pressing her lips lightly against his, giving into temptation. He doesn't pull away, although he's well aware that he's cheating on Lu. But right now, right in this very moment with Jordan pulled tight against him and her lips on his, he could care less.

He can taste the strawberry of her lip-gloss upon his lips as they come up for air, smell the citrusy scent of her hair pressed up against his face, feel her hammering heart beat under his hand which is resting precariously on her neck. He looks at her for another moment, fleetingly, before placing his lips upon hers again.

As they stand there in the stairwell, tight in each other's embrace, Woody wonders how something so wrong can feel so right.


End file.
